They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. I have never wept since that day. But, though the latter was somewhat embarrassed by his burthen, he peremptorily declined Jonathan's offer of assistance. “Sebastianus? Where did my husband go?” He smiled at her gently, patronizingly, as he prevented her from movement or escape.
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